Harry Potter's Hogwarts Bucket List
by lethalogica
Summary: HPDM, HGRW, various pairings. Who's to say Harry Potter isn't like his father and has a ingenious mind for pranks? The Boy-Who-Lived has a list and he's checking it twice - and nobody's safe from his practical jokes. Not even Draco. Especially not Draco.
1. Chapter 1: Eleven, Twelve, and Thirteen

**Title:** Harry Potter's Hogwarts Bucket List

**Author:** lethalogica

**Characters:** Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, a _lot_ of other characters

**Ships:** Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, various ones for different pranks

**Rating:** PG-13 sounds good.

**Warning(s):** Suggestive material, some cussing here and there, and abuse of magic.

**Additional warning:** Author is not responsible for underage readers. Mind the rating and warning(s).

**Disclaimer:** Characters are the property of JK Rowling, et al. This fic was written for fun, not for profit.

* * *

11: Wonder to Hermione Granger if redheads really are "bigger"...

12: ... And if they also have freckles _there_...

13: ... And if the drapes match the carpet.

A tiny first-year enters Professor McGonagall's class and passes her a note. She raises a fine eyebrow as her eyes quickly scan the paper, then hands it back to him. "Class, Dumbledore has a few matters I must discuss with him immediately. To fill in for my absence will be..." Her eyes pass over the room of raised Gryffindor and Slytherin hands just as swiftly as they did for the note, and points with her chin, "Hermione Granger."

A chorus of "_she always gets it!_" and "_Gryffindor bias!_" and "_you like us,_ right_, Hermione?_" ring out to accompany the end of the professor's choice. "Quiet!" she says. "Feel free to question the intentions of my decision _once I return from the Headmaster's_. For now, Miss Granger, please take up my space here."

With a bright face about, she strides up as McGonagall gives a sharp nod and exits. Harry bites his lip sharply to keep his stupid, proud grin from giving away his plan so early.

"To continue where Professor McGonagall was finishing off," she smiles gently, "are there any questions?"

No-one wants to put themselves on the spot, it seems; at least, not until a solitary arm is upright and patient and the whole class looks to see whose arm it is exactly. Some students' eyes widen to see that it belongs to a certain Draco Malfoy. The same students who thought it a sign from the supernatural forces that are that Ragnorak is soon upon this world and the first sign is _Draco Malfoy_ raising his hand, well, their eyes promptly widen doubly so when they see that _Harry Potter_ is forcing that arm up with his own hands, as in _voluntarily touching_ the snotty git in front of an audience. One of those students is Ron Weasley, and his eyes are starting to hurt.

"Yes, Malfoy?" Hermione asks, reasonably suspicious, but not of the Slytherin's motives; no, it is of her best friend's that she finds herself slightly nervous. Even more nervous than the time that Crookshanks began coughing up fiery red hairballs and Ron was nowhere to be seen.

"_We_ have some questions, actually," Harry grins.

Ron narrows his eyes and asks nobody in particular, "Has a stronger form of _Imperious_ been created?" He himself does not know for whose sake he says that.

"Go on," she encourages, ignoring the ominous atmosphere surrounding those two, thus far, acting civil and even _friendly_.

"Tell me, 'Mione. Are redheads," Harry clears his throat in attempt to find a more tasteful term, "_better equipped_ down South than the rest of us boring brunets and blonds?"

"And, I must just _know_, Granger," Draco drawls, "do they also have freckles...there?"

"But, first and foremost, could you tell us if the, uh, carpets match the drapes?"

A rustle is heard as Blaise leans over to Pansy and whispers, "I'm frightened. Hold me."

An, "Oi, keep your hands to yourself, you hyperactive, sex-crazed nymphomaniac!" and the connection between a fist and a jaw are heard in reply.

What is worse, however, is the lust-filled and very male moan that follows it.

But Hermione is still in shock from the three questions that bombarded her seconds earlier. "Er," she whimpers as thoughts ricochet in that gigantic encyclopedia she modestly refers to as her quite normal brain. Such thoughts include, _How do they even know we've gone that far?_ and _When_ this _new development become?_ and, _Oh no, not again_, and she stops momentarily when she finds herself thinking that as she has no idea _why_ she thinks that when this has never happened before, not as far as she knows at least, but it is forgotten when she sees something very, _very_ red out of the corner of her eye and realises it is her very, _very_ red boyfriend.

Not sure what to do, she panics, and shouts at Ron with a loopy shake of her wand, "_Aguamenti_!"

He is immediately doused, and dripping, damp, wet, soggy, he says, "Really, Hermione? _Really_?"

She gives him her best apologetic smile and mouths something that makes him blush even more than before, so it can be assumed that what she mouths is a promise that no-one else can translate because they are simply _that_ close. That, or Ron misinterpreted her words for something very different from what she intended. Either way, she receives her response and turns back to the troublesome duo and clears her throat.

"That is a private matter that will remain so unless we choose otherwise, and we _definitely_ do not choose otherwise."

The boys nod in acceptance, and all seems well - until Draco leans to Ron and asks in a loud whisper, "She's got you whipped tighter than McGonagall's bun, huh? What does she do? Withhold sexy time?"

Hermione gapes as Harry petulantly crosses his arms and mumbles in an equally loud volume, "Stop thinking _everybody_ is cruel enough to do _that_, Draco. It's just you."

The blond raises a haughty brow. "Do you want me to demonstrate just how cruel I can be? Because you sure are asking for it."

"Oh, _no_, because as I remember it last night, _you_ were the one begging for my hard-"

"Harry!" Ron barks.

"-in your lovely, pale-"

"_Potter_!" Pansy croaks.

"-and just _asking_ for it over and over again until I thought my-"

"**Harry**!" Hermione squawks.

"-would fall off from overstimulation!"

The room is stunned into silence.

"You think they're ready to spill now?" Draco murmurs into Harry's ear.

"Just one more strike and he'll be out," he replies.

The Slytherin smiles. It is not a smile that inspires relief. It is a smile that forebodes trauma for any and all unlucky souls in the vicinity who did not have the fortune nor foresight to leave while they still had the chance. "Could you just imagine the looks on their faces when they find on whose beds we did it on?"

With desperate gurgle, Ron sobs out, "Harry! Oh, Harry, _no_! Please! Don't tell me it was my – was it my-"

Harry smiles abashedly.

"Why? _Why_? What did I ever do to deserve this? I'll do anything, just stop talking about your sex lives and telling me things I would've been happy to live my life with not knowing!"

The couple look to each other for a decision and shrug helplessly. "I don't think this would've ever started if Hermione had just answered our questions," Harry says, the face of innocence.

Ron whips his head towards the accused and glares. Hermione cringes.

Ron glares harder. "No. Sex."

Hermione gasps. "You can't be _serious_!"

Ron continues glaring. Hermione sighs resignedly with a heavy blush settling on her cheeks.

"Alright. I can't really answer the first since I've never _seen_ another to," she coughs, "compare, but...yesandyes."

"Excuse me, what? I can't hear you very well, you're so far," Draco teases in his most sincere "sincere" voice.

"Yes! Yes, alright? Yes, they... The carpets match the drapes, and... God, must I? He also has freckles...there."

No-one says a word. Then Neville clears his throat and utters something that echoes throughout the room impressively: "TMI."

The class bursts into laughter right as McGonagall steps, _clickity_-_clackety_, into the room. "What is the meaning of this?" she demands, red in the face and ever-so-slightly hysterical.

Draco nudges Harry and asks, "What did you put on the note?"

"Sent her to an empty classroom where Snape may or may not have also been sent to at the same time that a time-delayed Snogging Vapour was set off."

The blond stifles his giggles into his sleeve and talks into Harry's arm, "Oh, I have much to plan with you, Harry Potter."

The Gryffindor indulges in a smile before turning to the professor and explaining, "Oh, it was nothing, Hermione was just, _enthusiastically, might I add_, telling us one of the many reasons why human beings don't, or _shouldn't_, Transfigure other human beings into different species - or vice versa, for that matter."

McGonagall's stern gaze softens considerably and she makes an impressed coo, not noticing Draco before he manages to detach himself from Harry. "Good job, Ms. Granger. Ten points to your house for teaching a room full of Gryffindors and Slytherins without the class bursting into a civil war."

Hermione gives a pleasantly surprised gasp and beams gratefully at him. He replies with a stationary curtsy as McGonagall sends Hermione back to her seat and resumes her stately presence.

It all seems back to normal until a round little curiosity rolls itself out of the professor's robes, making a sort of _click_-_click_-_click_ing sound when it hits the floor. Draco's eyes widen almost comically and he furtively grabs Harry's collar through the sudden eruption of wonder and speculation from the other students. "Tell me you didn't."

The Gryffindor gives him a sheepish smile. "Oops? I couldn't resist. Now, I'm claiming you before Zabini does with his gelled-to-perfection hair and crafty fingers." He makes a face and wiggles his fingers mockingly, but before Draco or any of the other students know it, he's in the brunet's arms, being snogged quite thoroughly, thank you very much, and the small, odd thing on the ground? It spins with a _whoosh_ing sound and splits in half. Fumes, smoke, a mist rises from inside it and settles over the classroom.

"Shite!" Pansy exclaims. "It's a Snogging Vap-" is all she is able to get out before Theodore Nott grabs her head and snogs the living blazes out of her, and all the while, she reciprocates, even though her eyebrows are furrowed in anger and anguish and just the slightest, tiniest itty-bittiest tic of pleasure. She would later refute those charges.

Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas are making out rather eagerly in a corner, though everyone knows they will vehemently deny so come lunchtime, and poor Blaise Zabini is being overwhelmed by Neville Longbottom's wicked, wicked, _divine_ mouth - enjoying it however forced it is, of course.

The Patil twins are each almost eating, respectively, Crabbe and Goyle's faces, and Millicent Bulstrode is grabbing desperately at Lavender Brown, and everyone else who is nobody is just a part of the background of the production of the world's greatest reluctant symphony of smacking lips and panting ever. Which just becomes exponentially worse when Flitwick rushes in, hearing the ruckus from next door, because one moment, he and McGonagall lock eyes, and the next, they are pulling impatiently at each other's' robes, to the horror on all those poor, poor onlookers.

And in the eye of the storm, of course, are Harry and Draco, still kissing the hell out of each other, even when vapours dissipate about five or so minutes later.


	2. Chapter 2: Fifty-six

56: Animate all the food to start talking back adorably.

* * *

"Hiya!" it squeaks.

Ron stares at it. And he stares some more. And he keeps on staring until Hermione slaps him across the face and asks, concern shining through her voice, "Are you alright? It's garlic fish and chips with a BLT, hold the LT, and a tall glass of mangosuckle pop, your _favourites_. Are you still on what happened in Transfiguration?"

He gulps and shakes his head.

Her brows furrow in vexation. "What then?"

"Indeed! What?" it whispers spiritedly.

He lets out a shriek to rival a mature mandrake's, which is why Neville jerks his head around to find the source so suddenly that he finds himself facing and consequently stumbling face-first into Ron's face, and all the girls (and a few boys) who have the privilege of seeing that once-in-a-lifetime moment cheer loudly.

They are both a stunning shade of tomato and peeling each other off to murmurs of disappointment and a singular demand of, "Take your pants off!" which people turn to see Hermione just finish saying, and several eyebrows are cocked at her outburst because, really, does she need to yell when she's right in front of them?

But Ron straightens himself out and clears his throat, "We are never to speak about that again."

Neville gulps with an embarrassed smile and asks in beat, "About what?"

The redhead is about to remind his mate's apparently short-term memory of the fact, but a saucer of flan smiles, its eyes crinkling, and answers for him, "The kiss, you silly adolescent male of the human species! So forgetful!"

Neville's steak agrees, "Oh, yes; I can only hope that my nutrients will help their memory cortex so incidents like this are not so frequent!"

Now no-one but the foods are saying anything, not that their nonsensical yet oddly sophisticated discussions are of any value to anyone, and Neville is tortured. His eyes dart to his seedling Whimpering Willow, then to his plate of delicious medium-rare meat, back to that gorgeous specimen of magical flora that is making the most sympathy-inducing cries, and again that divine bovine with the rather unnerving grin and big, bright eyes, and he makes a sound of defeat.

"If I can't strictly be a meat-eater _or_ a vegetarian, then what the bloody fuck am I gonna live on?" he sobs.

"I dunno, mate," Seamus Finnigan says as he sticks a fork into the flan, which only giggles and exclaims, "That tickles!" "I don't think it'd be that hard to be a strict meat-eater in this day and age."

Looks that pass through a surprisingly wide spectrum of disbelief and horror and amusement directed at him catch his attention, and Seamus asks, "What? What did I do now?"

Dean Thomas grimaces. "I can't believed I snogged that mouth."

"Well, believe it, because this mouth wants some more snogging! After this plate of flan, of course." The plate of flan continues its giggling, of course.

Draco is walking over to the usual eighth-years' spot at the Gryffindor table when he hears the cries of stupefaction and terror so harmonious that one would've thought that all the Houses had pitched in to provide an impromptu chorus of previously unknown talents to welcome their guest, the arrogant-as-ever Gilderoy Lockheart. No memory charm of such effective caliber as his could ever erase his innate narcissism and boastful tendencies, no matter how much _other_ people unsuccessfully trialed in the efforts to rid him of his vapid qualities, as he is currently irritating Snape with the exaggerations of _his_ trials to regain his memories and the new novel he is working on about those very same trials and caring nothing for the rambling casserole before him.

"Hullo hullo, lions," Draco greets as he slips between the Patil twins. "Lovely morning this is, yeah?"

Lavender Brown looks to his honest face, then to the windows, and back. "It's dinnertime. Lovely _evening_."

"Oh, and a lovely evening to you too, Brown!"

"What are you talking about, blondie? Are you in your right mind?" A hex hums under his breath and a wail escapes Lavender that turns into a strange sort of groan as her pitch descends and descends and it keeps descending until it seems like it can't descend any deeper without shifting whole cords in her voice box to get its way.

Harry drops in soon enough to take Lavender's spot, which she has vacated to run to the lavatories. "Ah, lovely morning, yeah? Sorry I was cooped up in the dorms so long. Something was brought to my attention-" Draco coughs, just the tiniest bit of red in the cheeks, "-and I got distracted."

Normally, Ron would have reacted by then, via internal breakdown and an external attempt at recreating the most iconic feature of Edward Munch's more recognised works, but he does not.

Instead, he is locked into a staring contest with his garlic fish and chips with a BLT, hold the LT, and tall glass of mangosuckle pop, his favourites. However, any stranger who, strangely, chooses to study the Gryffindor's face at that moment is likely to presume that he hates all of those dishes.

For one thing, he is pallid and wan and blanched and waxen and ashy and all those other words that sound like scientific terms for that shifty period between a short cut and longer hair in which short is neither here nor there, yet nor is long, and the whole thing is just absolutely clashing with everything. For another, his nose is twitching in what can be interpreted as either dangerous or itchy - though Harry is willing to bet ten Galleons that it is a little bit of both: dangerous because the implications of Harry and Draco coming to the Great Hall hours later from the dorms are finally reaching him, and itchy because it seems to be one of those remarkable instances in which a Weasley (in this case, Ron) is so shocked that he loses control of a body part he never even had control of in the first place.

He is still staring and staring and staring, but the thing that finally cracks him is the tiniest of the chips biting its starchy bottom lip to hide a smile before giving up completely and squealing, "Kiss again!"

Ron faints.

Hermione snaps out her wand, which stabs more than just a few bystanders in the eye, and yells, "_Rennervate_!"

It is only when she is already halfway through the spell that Dean, pressing a palm (which was, incidentally, not his own) to his sore left eye, exclaims, "Hermione, your wand's backwards!"

By the time she grasps the significance of his warning, however, she has already finished, and a red bolt shoots out of her wand, latching onto and making Hermione splutter as if she is in the middle of being electrocuted, then fall face first onto a singing bowl of gazpacho. Her movements tip over Neville's Willow, which starts sobbing like a Whomping Willow probably does within the safety of its callous, but simply disillusioned heart of bark (they usually become so after realising that they've no opportunities because all people see are mindless, lashing hunks of magical wood, so then they pass through periods of depression, resignation, and, ultimately, a constant rage that ironically fulfills their image), and the crowd turns to its owner.

He says nothing, however, which makes sense, seeing as how he's completely out.

"Great, now we have three dead-"

"_Unconscious_, Draco. Just unconscious."

"I wish it weren't so, but fine. Three _unconscious_ Gryffindors and a wailing tree testing my patience. Who knows how to perform the _Rennervate_ charm properly?" No hands fling themselves up. "Then I say nay on being the one to carry them back to the den!"

Harry catches on and shouts, "Nay!" and there is a cacophony of that same response within seconds. Heads turn towards the direction of the wave of sound until every Gryffindor, save the three unconscious ones (for whom Seamus has the courtesy to turns their heads with), has declared it. All but for the tiny first year who bares a striking resemblance to Celestina Warbeck. The illusion is ruined as he opens his mouth and Hagrid's voice comes out - richer and just the tiniest more refined, but deep and scratchy all the same. "Nay?"

Harry saunters up to him, claps the boy on the back (who is still too shocked for the patented _oh, my stars, Harry_ bloody _Potter is touching me!_ effect to come about), and says, "Nope. Sorry, mate, but you've got corpse duty!"

His periwinkle eyes widen to the size of the kumquats giggling on the table, and he squeaks, "_Corpse_?"

"Hm? Oh, no, _no_! Not actual corpses, kid!"

The boy sighs a breath of relief.

"It'll just _feel_ like it."

The boy's mouth contorts into an upside-down likening of the letter "U", which, incidentally, is _not_ the letter of the day in the North American airing of Sesame Street, but would have been two years ago.

"And don't forget the stupid, drooling stick over here!" yells Draco.

"Oh, yeah, and the tree too, if you'd be kind enough to."

"I mean Weasel, not the willow," Draco yells again.

Harry gives an amused chuckle in response before ruffling the boy's hair. "We're counting on you to get them back to the dorms safely. You can do _that_, yeah?"

He is still more than a little reluctant but he eventually nods timidly, and the table (and foods) whoop.

There is a mumble of, "Must be a Thursday. Never could get the hang of Thursdays," then he leaps out of his seat to collect the bodies. They are balancing precariously on his back within the next three minutes, the tree clutched in his hands, and he struggles out of the Great Hall to Professor McGonagall's dumbfound expression.

Draco looks up from his fidgety slice of apple pie when Harry sits back down. "He didn't think of levitating charms, then?"

There is a crash right outside of the door, and a resounding swear. Harry winces in sympathy. "I don't think it even passed his mind. I do hope he knows some healing spells for the bruises they're sure to get."

Green then meets grey, and they laugh wildly.

"Yeah, _right_," Draco scoffs. He finishes his slice ravenously, mentally blaming it on their day long dueling marathon - which involved both the vertical _and_ horizontal types - and finds Harry staring at him, not at all shameless, when he reaches for another. Under average circumstances, Draco would be preening and basking in his gaze. But it is different because this stare is curiously disconcerting, and he finds himself wondering why.

"What?"

Green darts to the simpering pie tin.

The blonde is, for all intents and purposes, terrified. "Oh, Merlin. No. _No_. What else did you do to the food?"

"Honest, I didn't think you would end up eating it too! I thought it would only be Lockheart and Seamus or something!"

Grey narrows. "What. Did. You. _Do_."

Harry's lips tighten into a straight line of pale pink, one edge flickering up in _very_ conspicuous entertainment, and he says with finality, "Guess you'll just find out tomorrow. Keep spare robes with you at all times."

He winks lasciviously at the Slytherin before gathering his robes and dashing out of the Great Hall to the screamed threats of, "Come back here, you arse! Come back here and give me the antidote _this instant_! I will hunt you down if need be! I will eviscerate you with great joy and feed your entrails to your dear, precious Hedwig! Come back here, **_Potter_**!"

He does not.

Instead, the untouched pie in front of Draco suggests, as sweet as a gigantic bunch of sugar cane jammed into a pink teddy bear's mouth with rainbows and unicorns entangling in the background, "Maybe you should take an anger management class."

There is a crack of wood, splatters of crust and tangy filling all over the Gryffindor table, an livid, heaving Draco, and Snape says, just to add a little injury to insult: "Five points from Slytherin for slaughtering that adorable, innocent pastry." He then slaps a bony hand to his face.

Draco cannot hide his confused outrage. Then his eyes spot that unfinished roast beef Snape was eating a sliver of with disdain just seconds earlier, and his shoulders sag.

"_Fuck_."

"Five points from Slytherin for that unnecessary profan - _damn it_!"

* * *

**Author's Note:** Another H2G2 reference in there. I just cannot help it. Also: _my_ letter of the day ("U") has been brought to you by the several cups of coffee and green tea that litter my kitchen counter and the four reviews for the first chapter and my new laptop! Hoorah!


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